


Wabi-Sabi

by AnotherAspiringAuthor



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, Fluff, Ichiruki, Mutual Pining, One Shot Collection, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Soul Society Arc, Sparring, UST, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAspiringAuthor/pseuds/AnotherAspiringAuthor
Summary: Wabi-Sabi; The Japanese philosophy of finding beauty in the imperfect, serenity in the disorganised. An aesthetic movement, a creative line of thought. Nothing lasts for eternity, nothing is ever truly finished and nothing is perfect.Or, seven steps that are taken before a human Substitute realises he is hopelessly in love with the imperfect. Seven steps that are taken before a Soul Reaper realises she is hopelessly in love with the unpredictable.
Relationships: Kuchiki Rukia/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 22
Kudos: 87





	1. Fukinsei - Asymmetry or irregularity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept seems angstier than the content at this point. Given this is still being written, no promises on it staying that way.
> 
> This is mostly a collection of oneshots, linked by the theme of Wabi-Sabi and the seven principles behind it. Each chapter will be titled after one, following the idea of one in some way or another. This is planned to be canon-compliant, as it takes place during the Substitute and Soul Society arcs, given those are the only arcs I've watched as of posting this.
> 
> No promises on it staying that way in future works, mind you.

It starts a few days after Rukia runs him through with her sword. He sits in class and something just shifts and snaps inside him, a coiling, burning feeling like a snake curling up before it strikes. It thrums through his blood in time to his rising heartbeat, his breath coming faster, harsher and something in the back of his mind demanding that he move, that he snarl and fight and struggle and _kill_.

Ichigo has always considered himself to be a quiet person; not necessarily a quiet soul, but outwardly peaceful, silent, observant. This _thing_ is a new irregularity, something foreign latching itself onto his very soul, or perhaps, something old rising from its slumber.

Clearly this change is not within, but also without. In front of him, Rukia straightens stiffly, her head barely turning to glance at him out the corner of her eye. Ichigo’s knee begins to bounce rapidly, up, down, up, down, up, down, bouncing against the bottom of his desk.

 _What the hell is happening to me?_ Ichigo wants to snarl at Rukia. _What the hell is this?_

The bell rings to signal the end of class and he barely hears the teacher’s cheerful chirping, wishing them a good weekend as he gathers his things and all but sprints out of the room. It’s a testament to how tightly strung he feels that when someone knocks into him in the busy hall ( _blue hair, blue eyes, enemy, threat, fight, kill,_ his mind registers with bullet-like punctuation), he moves to turn around with fire in his eyes, muscles coiled tight to throw a punch before he could even realise how _bad_ of an idea that is. 

‘Leave it.’ And then an arm is in front of his chest, hand resting over a thudding heart as Rukia stands beside him, looking off into the distance as she spoke quietly to him. Still, he strains momentarily against her arm before she says again, ‘ _Leave it_.’

Her tone brokers no argument. Her touch, despite his need to just _fucking ruin_ someone or something, anchors all his frantic energy just enough for him to turn around and stalk off to his locker.

Rukia leans against the one next to him as he shoves books into it a little too forcefully, slams the door shut after getting his bag with just a touch too much strength.

‘Come with me,’ she says as Ichigo braces his hand against said locker, eyes closed in some feeble attempt to fight this roaring wave of energy. And normally that would be enough, that knowledge that she knows what’s happening to him even if he doesn’t but this isn’t _him._ ‘Sparring day today.’

‘Rukia,’ he chokes out. ‘What the _hell is going on?_ ’

Surprisingly, she smiles. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes, but still, it is unexpected.

‘I think,’ she says, ‘we ought to have a referee present for this.’

* * *

The dusty space outside of Urahara’s shop has become a convenient place for them to train after school. Hats-and-Clogs seems to find it rather entertaining, watching a _Shinigami_ without her powers beat the ever-loving _fuck_ out of a substitute with them and so is quite happy to accommodate them. With the late spring heat beating down upon the town relentlessly, the dust swirling in the light breeze and the blue sky overhead supervising this practice session, Ichigo should feel anything but tense.

And yet here he is, fists bundled up in his jean pockets, teeth gritted, shoulders hunched.

‘You took all of my powers. Not just some of them.’ Ichigo still has enough of his normal self about him to duck his head with a bit of guilt at that, grunting yet another apology. Rukia waves him off nonchalantly as Urahara walks out of his shop, two wooden _bokken_ in hand. ‘You’ve….ah-overfilled your glass of water. Gotta tip some of it out.’ A rub at the back of her neck. ‘Gotta tip a lot of it out, apparently.’

Ichigo remembers how it had felt, Rukia’s power flowing into him when she ran him through that night. It felt like cool, controlled ice sliding down his spine and settling into the pit of his stomach, growing and growing until his veins were filled with red-stained snow and his lungs were exhaling freezing blizzards. This, _this_ , was like molten hot lava in every inch of his being, a volcano barely contained with every tensing of his muscles, every step he took tinged with roaring fire. Rukia had felt like a cool, controlled breeze, slowing his thoughts down and relaxing his muscles. Ichigo felt comparatively _feral_. It’s laced in how he stalks back and forth across the dusty front of Urahara’s shop, impatiently ripping his jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled up with a hasty motion.

‘It doesn’t-‘ How does one even convey the difference in how his power felt now? That spark from a swirling snowstorm of grace and control to this boiling inferno? ‘It doesn’t feel like you.’ And a wince because yes, he’s a teenage boy, he knows _exactly_ how this might sound but eloquence isn’t high at the list of his priorities right now. ‘It feels like fire in my veins Rukia. Like-‘

‘Like you’re on a leash that’s five seconds away from snapping and you just can’t stop pulling.’ She shrugged. ‘You’re adapting to the power you took. Making it your own. What you feel now is _yours_ , not mine.’

‘But-what about-‘

Urahara interrupts with a cough and a smile. ‘Ichigo, my boy, I can see you practically spilling over at the seams. Water adapts. Whatever tips from your cup…’ His cane taps in Rukia’s direction. ‘Will find its home in another.’

When first he had fumbled in catching the practice sword from Urahara, now he caught it smoothly, not even breaking stride.

‘So, really,’ Urahara says. ‘It’s in Kuchiki’s best interests for you to beat her senseless this time. What?’ he protests innocently at said person glaring daggers at him. ‘It’s awfully predictable knowing who’ll win these practice matches all the time. I’m _excited_ for this.’

‘You’re a damned sadist, is what you are.’ Rukia muttered, giving the practice sword a few practice twirls before settling into her stance.

 _Enough talking,_ something seemed to murmur at the back of his head, full of excitement and animal instincts as Ichigo settled into his own, all that power ready to be channelled through the weapon he held, towards the enemy in front of him. _Fight, fight, fight!_

‘Stay.’ She said to Urahara as he bowed and moved to leave. ‘This…might be a little…’

‘Messy?’ Underneath that hat, Ichigo can see eyes twinkle in amusement as they peer at Ichigo. Rukia made some sort of noise of agreement. ‘My, you must be wound tight something fierce.’

‘Something like that.’ Rukia answered for him.

Urahara shrugged, seating himself on the front steps of his shop. ‘Far be it for me to stop you.’ His fan opened, waved at them lazily. ‘Begin.’

It takes everything Ichigo has to not blindly launch himself at Rukia, instead advancing carefully, albeit hastily, as that voice in his mind snarled at him to swing, smash, thrust, _take._

It seems Rukia had no such compunctions and Ichigo rapidly found himself on the back foot, sword barely deflecting her rapid blows. One, two, three strikes are parried and then suddenly his ribs are aching, then his thigh, and then his back is bruised.

She tuts behind him and that _something_ in the back of Ichigo’s head roars in disapproval and he just-he _can’t_ -he-

‘Is that the-‘ Rukia is cut off, sword shaking under the force of Ichigo’s singular strike. She steps back, Ichigo stepping forward with an upwards slash that would’ve taken Rukia’s head off it’s hinges had she not been swift enough to snatch out of his path. The following slash downwards is parried, and Ichigo follows his momentum around, wildly spinning and thrusting with a wild laugh of relief as that tension in his shoulders finally had somewhere to go.

He must have looked mental as the tip of the _bokken_ catches her in the sternum and Rukia is sent stumbling back with a choked noise of pain. That red haze clears for a second and Ichigo lets his own weapon drop momentarily, laugh choking under his own noise of concern.

‘Are you-‘

‘Fool!’ And, as Ichigo stumbles back clutching his face, all he can think momentarily is that _blimey_ , that was gonna leave a shiner and a half. ‘Would you ask a Hollow if they’re alright? Would you stop to ask a Hollow to dinner?’

His answer is a growl and a low sweep taking her legs out from underneath, Rukia’s breath leaving in a _whoosh_ of air. Ichigo’s following thrust down meets nothing but dirt as she barely rolls out of the way, takes _his_ legs with a sweep of her own and suddenly she is atop him, wood pressed against his windpipe.

Her white shirt is covered in dust and dirt. The wooden _bokken_ is covered in nicks and dents from the impact of their blows. Her hair is messy, half covering shining violet eyes as she looks at him in victory. A shudder shoots through her body and Ichigo wonders in the back of his mind how it felt, picking up the bits of his storming, molten power in her calmer, cooler soul. He wonders how they match together, how each beat is met perfectly, parried just right to keep them pushing one another as far as they could safely go. He wonders how he looks in her eyes; wonders if he looks as wild as he felt, wonders if his eyes reflect the fire flooding his veins, if his lips tilting upwards reflect the snarling creature in his chest rising to the challenge.

Briefly, he wonders if they had been doing this for weeks, or for years.

‘Do you yield?’ The customary challenge. _We can stop this right here_ , her tone says. _We can stop this right here and find another way to settle you down but I don’t want you to._

‘Like hell.’

* * *

‘Are you keeping score?’

‘Ah Tessai. Closing time already?’

‘Yes boss.’

‘Hmph. I should probably call a halt to proceedings, shouldn’t I?’ Tessai sits his huge frame beside Urahara and the pair look upon the brawling couple framed by a dusky sun. ‘I have them about even.’

‘There’s a monster in that child.’ Tessai observes, as Ichigo takes Rukia’s strike to his abdomen without a flinch, his own coming in to smash into her shoulder. Had it been a live blade, Urahara has no doubt it would have cleaved down to her lungs with the strength of the strike. He can only agree with Tessai’s assessment. Ichigo looked absolutely _wild._

Urahara is grateful that Kenpachi was not present. He only has so many training swords to smash.

Wood smashed against wood with that sharp, satisfying sound of training done properly Urahara so loved to hear. For as long as they had been fighting, brawling, grappling, they only seemed to be hitting harder, moving faster, the two partners dancing in tandem to the most violent song they knew that seemed to only escalate in rhythm.

A high strike from Ichigo is parried, a low strike from Rukia jumped over and the two clash in the middle, pushing and panting from the exertion. Ichigo, unpredictable brute that he is, once more does the unexpected.

His weapon clatters to the ground as he sidesteps Rukia in a graceful movement completely contrary to his erratic, bear-like strikes that had came all afternoon. The lack of opposing force sends her stumbling forwards, eyes wide and a hand is fisted in her hair, a knee slamming into the back of her own leg.

Rukia’s back hits the floor with a _thud_ and Ichigo is above her, the hand full of her hair keeping her head pinned against the ground. Her weapon is yanked out of her hand almost effortlessly by its handle and Ichigo presses it against Rukia’s throat with a strange gentleness; practically a caress. Anyone but Urahara might find the answering smirk sliding onto Rukia’s face odd, given the situation.

Lips move but Urahara knows not what they say. He simply stands, Tessai rising besides him and leaves quietly.

He knows better than to attempt to halt a contest that would never end, a perfectly matched push-and-pull tide that would extend beyond practice and battle.

* * *

‘Do you yield?’ Ichigo’s voice is throaty above her, the wood pressed against her throat hot from the continued beatings it had taken. Eyes bore into her own and for a second, she swears she sees a hint of yellow in his irises, his sclera turning a shade of unnerving black before he blinks. Instead, honey-gold eyes implore her own.

‘Do. You. Yield?’ _This can stop_ , his eyes say. _The storm is calming. Thank you_.

Her arm reaches out, grabs his own _bokken_ with lightning speed and presses it against his own throat. He doesn’t even flinch and the smirk that slides onto his face floods her stomach with the same type of molten lava that seemed to have fuelled his brutal blows, his short and jerky movements full of tight, barely leashed power.

‘Do you?’ She challenges back and if her own voice is throaty, her own eyes half-lidded in response, who else is to know but them?

They stayed like that for a moment, mellow rum gazing into proud violet and the setting sun only adds to the timelessness of the situation.

‘Draw.’ They murmur together in unison and the weapons are tossed aside before Ichigo helps Rukia to her feet and the two of them are rolling their sleeves down, redoing buttons that had been knocked loose, putting their now dusty blazers back on.

It’s a little early for them to be completely open, completely honest with one another just yet - she had only stabbed him with her sword a few weeks back after all – but eyes say what tongues will not. What used to be firey, whiskey-flavoured eyes were now mellowed as Ichigo rolled his shoulders, shrugged his blazer on with a stiff sort of stretch to his body. Broad shoulders that had previously been taut with the power of a _Shinigami_ rolling through like waves were now lowered, relaxed as he rolled his neck.

‘Will it happen often?’ He asks and Rukia ignores how they’re walking closer together on the way home than they had been on the way here. ‘That-whatever it was.’

‘Most likely. You’re only human.’ She means this clinically, scientifically, not as an insult. Never as an insult. Ichigo, for all his irregular flaws, is so _brilliantly_ human, she doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to mean it as an insult. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken so long to build up like it did, to be honest.’

As Ichigo scratches under his chin musingly, she is struck with how _sharp_ all his features are in dying light and rising night. ‘Maybe all that Hollow-fighting kept me level.’

Those mellow eyes regard her with such fondness, it is hard not to smile back when she nudges him with her shoulder and promises to help keep him level if the Hollows won’t oblige.

It feels most irregular, to be a _Shinigami_ without her _zankpu-to_ , training a human brimming with energy he can barely keep a handle on. But, as they walk side-by-side to their odd sleeping accommodations of a bed and a closet, Rukia thinks that maybe, irregularity in life wasn’t such a terrible thing.

In a rare moment of peace since her arrival in the human world, Ichigo’s deep, heavy inhales and exhales signalling his sleep come almost as soon as his head hits the pillow. Rukia knows not of what he dreams of, but her sleep is filled with visions of mellow-gold and never-ending black sclera clashing, snarling, swirling amongst one another in the most perfect storm she has ever seen.

Steps away, Ichigo’s own sleep, so often disturbed by dreams of Hollows ragdolling him, his family, his friends like chew toys, is soothed by intangible fingers of ice sliding down his spine, skating through his hair, violet eyes swirling in a kaleidoscope of different variants.

Dreams that were most definitely irregular, but greedily welcomed and devoured by both participants nonetheless, even if they woke up none-the-wiser to the source of their morning tranquillity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this household, we absolutely adore flirty sparring.
> 
> Please, leave a review. In-keeping with the works theme, absolutely nothing is perfect and all criticism on plot, theme, technique, dialogue, anything is greedily swallowed up. 
> 
> Thank you.


	2. Shizen- Naturalness without Pretence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the longest chapter I've ever written for anything at all? 
> 
> Growth?

Ichigo finds that he classifies his life up to this point into two chapters; before Rukia and after Rukia.

Whilst he undeniably prefers the latter over the former, there are aspects of his old life he does miss. Before Rukia were the lunch-times he and Chad would sit together quietly on the school rooftop, headphones in and eyes closed as they basked in the early summer heat. Gone, it seems, are his interactions with the ghosts around Karakura. Perhaps they sense his energy and flee before he can turn a corner, fear of the unknown and what comes after driving their feet forwards and away. The quiet _hello_ ’s and _stay safe’_ s he would say to the scared ones, the booming laughter he could prompt from the angry ones, calming their storms and giving them some peace. Before Rukia can be compared with lazy summer days, hazy and timeless in how they stretched without true purpose, defined by these tiny interactions that gave his weeks definition and form. In hindsight, Ichigo supposes it was nothing more than a prequel to life as it is now, an ellipses before the sentence begins.

After Rukia, life is…unrelenting. Purpose is everywhere he looks. As in class, he soaks in all the knowledge he can from the _Shinigami_ he has taken his power from, spends all his spare time poking for information, training. The beep of her phone is shortly followed by that dropping feeling one gets at the peak of a rollercoaster before the drop. Hands ruffle his hair in amused annoyance, feet kicking his shins in an argument-but-not-an-argument, hips checking his own as he gathers his bag of a morning before she darts out of his open window.

Life is fast, filled with purpose, up close and personal. Life is breaking boundaries he has sustained for years, all in a few measly weeks. Every single day is defined by a battle, a lesson, a reaffirmation of this new-found purpose to protect, to cleanse. Swinging the zanpaku-to feels like a calling, not an accident, in how perfectly the air is cleaved by his blade, his focus, his will.

He slashes and another Hollow disappears, bleeding from this reality like a stain rubbed away. Its mournful screech rings his ears and Ichigo can only wince as Rukia comes up beside him. He doesn’t realise how warm he’s running until cool hands have slipped inside his robes to rest against his ribs, making him jump and look down with widened eyes.

‘You’re bleeding.’ Rukia says simply, white shirt stained red from a popped nose that wouldn’t stop dripping, and cool hands turn icy as his wound stitches itself together beneath her kido. Against her careful touch, he can feel his muscles twitching as adrenaline levels out and briefly wonders how one so new settled so quickly into his life, so comfortably.

Anyone else would have been launched through realities to join the recently dispatched Hollow in its new home for this frank invasion of personal space.

‘Thank you.’ Ichigo says instead, because his mother raised him with manners, despite what Isshin might say, and he does his best to clean the bloody nose up as best he can with his sleeve and a grumbled threat of his blade replacing his unmentionables if he kept rubbing so hard.

This new routine, whilst not peaceful in and of itself is far more… _purposeful_ than his old life, Ichigo reflects as Rukia squirms uncomfortably under his sleeve. Finally, he thought, he was earning his namesake.

‘There.’ He stands. ‘Don-AH!’

‘Thank you.’ Rukia grumbles back to him, as Ichigo hops around holding his shin, teeth gritted. ‘Don’t do that again.’

As much as he misses all those little moments from his old life, he would trade them all and more in without hesitation to keep this new one. That sword on his back positively _thrummed_ with determination to protect this new life and the comforting veil of purpose settling in his soul so naturally and easily makes him wonder how he ever thought he was living before the dead illuminated his world.

* * *

Life used to be intricate, detailed, classified into dozens of tiny little moments and events that moulded her. These things still exist, of course they do, but in a different light now. Things are…simpler to classify.

Before Ichigo, life was defined by the moments in which she could be herself. Those moments in Seireitei in which she could kneel in the barracks and meditate, reflect in peace whilst the sound of live blades clashing rhythmically in practice outside lulled her mind to contentment. Those moments with Renji before becoming a Soul Reaper, two unruly children telling their reality that it could go fuck itself in acts of thievery, defiance, survival. The seconds in battle in which the noble Kuchiki mask slipped and the wild child raised to survive in Rukongai smirked, snarled, relished in the thrill of battle and adrenaline roaring in her veins.

In the present, in class, her hair shifts slightly, as if blown by a breath of fresh air. She scratches her head, rests her chin on her head and resolves to not ruminate so freely anymore. As with most things concerning that lazy, free feeling between Hollow fights, Rukia has little choice in this matter. In classes, with silent students scribbling in notebooks, preparing for exams she will never take, time flows like heated rubber, stretchy and slow to reform.

After Ichigo, life is defined by the moments in which she _can not_ be herself. The false act she plays up in the classroom, masquerading as if she had been birthed on this planet, as if she would die in this plane of existence amuses her in how it makes Ichigo twitch but frankly, she gets why he winces at her falsely high voice. Battles with Hollows are simple, the pair of them communicating with yells and growls and battle cries as Ichigo swings that ridiculously oversized sword. There is no stiff upper lip, just the thrill of battle, her experience and knowledge tempering his iron will and wild temper. She is no longer the noble Kuchiki when they walk home, jabbing and joking and smiling. She just…is.

After Ichigo, Rukia isn’t quite sure how she will slip back into Soul Society as the same person she was before. It is…liberating, to simply be.

Another flutter of her hair and Rukia frowns, snapping around in her chair with a speed that makes the nameless face idly flicking paper balls at the back of her head jump. When her eyes narrow, his lips slip into a smirk that makes her own lips twist nastily into a sort of half-snarl. Far stronger have side-stepped her from far more pleasant looks. When he drops his gaze to some point by her shoulder, she turns back to facing the board. In the corner of her eye, another paper ball flies, this time across the room in Chad’s direction, rather than from behind her.

When the next ball hits her, Rukia’s smothered snarl turns into a coughing sort of laugh as she turns to see Ichigo and Chad, both turned into their own seats towards the culprit, taking turns flicking their own balls of paper at this misguided fool. She has never seen two boys look so concentrated on a task, each flick of paper punctuated by a very serious nod from its owner to signal the next attack. Daggers are glared at Ichigo, at least before Chad’s paper _pings_ off the side of his head. Prompted to turn and attempt to hiss at Chad, Ichigo balls several of his own papers together rapidly, a wry sort of grin tilting his lips upwards as he held a conspiring finger to his lips towards Rukia.

The resulting projectile being hurled into her annoyance’s ear prompted a rather loud ‘OI!’ from nuisance-turned-victim. The teacher turned silent at the front of the class, eyebrows raised as Rukia spun in her chair rapidly, just barely catching Ichigo smothering his grin and arranging his face into the picture of innocence. The amused twinkle in his eyes gave him away.

‘Is there something you’d like to share with the class?’ Miss Rukia-had-forgot-her-name enquired in the general direction of the boy’s yell.

‘N-no Miss.’

‘Then please refrain from disturbing it.’ An eagle eye is cast over the surrounding desks. ‘Kurosaki, your notebook looks a tad torn up. Do refrain from pelting your neighbours with learning materials, as tempting as the target may be.’

A murmur of laughter around the class, Ichigo rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly while Chad just ducked his small smile into his chest and class resumes just like that.

Naturally. No punishments.

A ball flicks over her shoulder and lands on her desk.

Rukia was not averse to changing this lack of punishment and it takes her a great amount of willpower to keep her fingers from itching for her zanpaku-to as she turns once more.

 _Open it_ , Ichigo mouths at her, catching her eye before she spun to what would now be the very disgruntled wrongly-accused.

 _Sorry about him,_ his messy, hasty scrawl reads. _Bored easily._

 _In Seireitei, one would be condemned to cleaning and maintaining every practice blade in the building for such insolence_ , and her own hand is a cursive, measured movement on the crumpled paper as compared to his. _But Chad? Really?_

Rukia sees him shrug as he reads the returned message, his answer scrawled hastily.

_What? You think he just sits there and broods all the time? There are layers to that onion Kuchiki._

_No_ , and Rukia hopes her teasing smirk translates into writing, _I think that’s what **you** do all the time. _

There’s hesitation in the back and forth rhythm that they had built up before the paper lands back on her desk.

 _Only before you came_. His handwriting looked scruffier, as if writing it any faster would ease the embarrassment of vulnerability. Something warm blossoms in her stomach, unbidden. Bad, _bad, bad_.

When she glances back, Rukia doesn’t think it’s the heat making Ichigo’s cheeks a little redder than usual as he leans over to open a window.

She doesn’t think he notices the warm smile that’s slid on her face at his words.

She thinks wrongly.

* * *

_Only before you came._

This truth, four words that mean so much more, four words that are a _thank you_ and a _what the fuck_ and a _never ever leave please_ , absolutely destroys whatever measly final boundary that he kept up.

This truth, it breaks the dam. Because suddenly, everything is so much more open and natural and _god_ , the lack of bullshit in this friendship was such a breath of fresh air to him. He seems to have subconsciously made it his life mission to plaster that warm smile she had given him in class on her face at least twice a day with how honest words and open queries flowed from his lips without permission.

They argue with no heat. She slaps him upside the head, he takes her things and dangles them over her tiny frame, both sets of eyes dancing in amusement at the reactions of the other. It is, perhaps, the easiest friendship Ichigo has ever been part of.

‘Will you stay? When your powers come back?’ he asks during lunch one day, face like a picture book in how easy it is to read all his anxiety and worry that one day, he will open his closet and find nothing but memories inside. And whilst his nervous energy and red cheeks are that of a fifteen-year olds’, his fixed gaze never wavers from her eyes.

‘I’d like to.’ And Ichigo knows that the answer doesn’t fit his question but her own eyes never falter from his own, something like contentment, hope, sadness swirling together to create eyes that appear to see straight through to his soul. ‘I quite like it-being here.’ A sniff. ‘Visit often, if I-I can’t stay.’

Ichigo despises the tone of resignation in those words. As if some force would whisk her away from this existence, to hide her away forever and punish her for her happiness.

He settles against the rooftop wall, lets his head drop back against it and offers her an earbud in place of raging against resignation. Now does not seem the time to roar against the universe. They sit besides one another, looking out as Keigo does his utmost to move an unmovable Chad.

‘I’ll come get you.’ The firmness of his words surprises Ichigo. The conviction. But then purpose had never been an issue since he learned her name. ‘If-they make you go back. I’ll go with you-or-or-‘

 _Kill them_ , that feral voice sneered in the back of his mind. _Kill anyone who drags her away._ In this instance, it is difficult to disagree with such notions. He is a clever boy, outside of the brawn and the rashness and the reckless abandon in which he throws himself at his enemies. It isn’t hard to decipher that sad look in her eyes never leaves.

A squeeze of Ichigo’s hand cuts his ruminations short. Lips might stay closed but shining eyes bore into his own with an intensity he feels it would be disrespectful to duck away from.

‘We’re friends now,’ he says to her silent thanks. ‘I’ve never let anyone take my friends away from me for long.’ Purpose and conviction laces every word from his lips. Rukia checks his shoulder with her own, not moving out of their close proximity when he checks her back out of habit.

‘You’re something else, you know that Kurosaki?’ That resignation, that sadness still tinges her words and Ichigo makes sure to keep his eyes on hers so she knows he sees straight through her shit.

‘Get used to it,’ he tells her. ‘I’m not some fleeting moment in your life. You’re stuck with me.’

A sad smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes only cements his convictions more. She is _not_ temporary. He will _not_ allow it.

* * *

He has no choice but to allow it in the end.

He is bleeding out. He thinks he is dying, from what the two Reapers sent for Rukia seem to have murmured to one another before leaving.

He didn’t even see the strike that severed him from this mortal coil. Byakuya Kuchiki had swaggered into this world and slashed it limb from limb in the space of three steps, a haughty look and a single cut.

Was this why that smile hadn’t reached her eyes the other day? Why afterwards, she had rested her head upon his shoulder and breathed in deeply, hand squeezing his own tightly as if afraid to let go? Had she known her own brother would simply brush him aside like the breath from his lungs and remind him he was nothing but a speck of dust in a churning, unflinching universe?

She is long, long gone. Ishida has managed to crawl his way over, collapse in a wheezing mess besides him at some point. It’s not all that surprising to Ichigo how quickly time has taken on that syrupy quality it held before Rukia.

 _If you follow me…I’ll never forgive you_.

Once again something stirs beneath the numbness spreading through his body. Fire floods, pain rears its beautiful, ugly head, reminds him he is still _alive_ , at least for the moment.

 _Get up_ , and Ichigo isn’t sure if he’s growling to himself or if it’s Rukia’s voice, demanding him to rise in that tone that he was sure could fell seasoned generals in a second. For a moment, he can almost see her, shimmering behind the rain. The same rain had fell when he first met her.

He blinks and she is gone. The rain remains.

_Get. The. Fuck. Up._

One hand braces beneath his chest. Another. Knees take an eternity to slide up and time is moving like quicksand with her departure and he _needs to get up_.

He gets halfway up before his limbs succumb to agony and he falls once more with a pained gasp. Pale fingers drop against his shoulders.

‘Stay.’ Ishida croaks through his own injuries and he should listen, he should really listen, he’s only making the bleeding worse, hastening the inevitable but why should he just lie here and accept that-

‘Ru-Rukia…’ His hand comes beneath his chest to try rise again. He can’t even get the second one up before he collapses once more. Past the agony of his deep cuts, Ishida’s eyes look on in sympathy. Ichigo much preferred the way Rukia’s eyes lit up alongside her laughter, how violet turned into an infinite spectrum of colours if the light hit her just _so_ and-

‘She’s gone,’ the Quincy rasps out. ‘She’s _gone_ , Kurosaki.’ Three coughs and some blood drips from his lips. ‘W-We…We never had a choice.’ A wet, gurgling sort of laugh that sounds more like a barely restrained cry sneaks out. ‘A Quincy cut up for-for a-a-‘

He breaks away, more wet coughing flecking his lips with blood. Ichigo’s vision swims ever more.

If he dies here, he supposes he’ll be a few steps closer to finding her.

 _Oh aren’t you the glass-half-full kind?_ He can practically hear her tease with a roll of the eyes at him before hitting him in the chest. _Don’t you dare think about it_.

Ichigo can’t even manage to move his hand beneath his body now, can’t even hold his own weight against this slow, inevitable numbness creeping through his body.

‘No,’ he murmurs, and when he blinks she is _there_ , tears in her eyes and fire on her lips, chin tilted up in firm defiance of her own grief. ‘No…No, no… _No._ ’ She shimmers once more in the rain, going, going, _gone._

Ishida’s fingers squeeze against his shoulder, some odd, pained nose of empathy leaving his mouth.

His vision swims and he passes out like this. In refusal. Denial, of a choice not given, of a soul stole away, of purpose put to the sword.

In the end, he has no choice but to allow it. She is gone, his purpose with it and the rain falls heavy and incessant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well.
> 
> That lack of angst didn't last long huh


	3. Kanso - Simplicity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow update. Future chapters may also be a little slow to come, as I'm in my final month of university. Enjoy!

At the end of it all, it turns out Byakuya Kuchiki had not put his purpose to the sword and turned his life into a slow, slow death. At the end of it all, he just…re-routed his path, perhaps. Drew a line beneath his purpose of protection, tested the chains of his commitment, set him on the road to growing and changing and becoming something…different.

As he lies there, the ruins of Sokyoku scattered around him, scars of his battle with Byakuya scattering the landscape and the man himself being seen to by Squad 4, Ichigo feels that everything is very simple.

He is struck by the familiarity of the situation. On the ground, helpless, battered, bloody, unable to move without assistance. He is struck by the difference in the situation. His friends surround him, he is filled with pride that he has changed so _much_ , beaten so, so _many,_ had been able to keep Rukia safe just long enough for those better equipped to stop Aizen and Gin from murdering her. Events had spiralled quickly and the man he had been a few weeks ago would have been unable to keep pace.

But in the end, things are very simple. Rukia is safe, kneeling beside her murmuring brother. He is safe, encased within Orihime’s shield, his lesser wounds knitting back together beneath it. Zangetsu thrums contentedly beneath his fingers and Ichigo can almost feel the old man’s exhale in the back of his mind, feel the pride of a job done to the best of their ability bubbling within the two of them.

Lying there on the ground, his waist slashed to ribbons by Aizen (and how, _how_ , not even Byakuya had been that fast, that _ruthless_ to attempt to decapitate him with sheer stubborn will alone saving him), things are simple. His friends, his _family_ are safe.

_Rest now, child_ and Zangetsu’s tone is almost chiding. Ichigo turns his head and in the distance, the old man’s cloak flutters in the wind. It is hypnotic. _Rest now. There are more battles ahead. You must heal. Grow strong._

It is with an exhale of breath he didn’t know he had been holding that Ichigo’s pain fades away and his eyes slide shut.

* * *

The grass underfoot is dewy wet as Ichigo pads his way barefoot towards that incline by the river he and Rukia had trained by on weekend mornings. In the distance the sound of wooden swords _clicking_ and _clacking_ against one another in faux combat comes. As he approaches, the sun glints off the water, casting the two figures on the embankment in the sharpest shadows and softest lights. Practice swords are locked against one another, the larger shadows hands wrapped around the smaller ones weapon.

‘You can’t just grab my sword, you _fool_.’ and Ichigo recognises Rukia’s half-annoyed, half amused sigh in those words. ‘It won’t be wooden when it isn’t training anymore.’

There’s a half shrug in the larger shadows shoulders before he pulls her weapon from her hand and backpedals out of kicking range.

‘I doubt whoever tries to cut me up with a live blade will be as small as you either’, Ichigo’s voice says without Ichigo speaking, that practice sword being thrown back to Rukia. ‘But here we are anyway.’

Rukia launches herself at him the second the wooden handle is in her hand, her strikes a flurry of movements Ichigo remembers barely being able to see. They seemed so slow now, looking backwards.

Ichigo blinks and Zangetsu is beside him, cloak fluttering despite the dry air.

‘Why am I seeing this?’ Ichigo asks quietly as Rukia catches his dream self on the shoulder.

‘Your mind called for simplicity. Your body is bordering on the edge.’ He gestures and Ichigo’s hand drifts to his stomach unconsciously as his dream self receives a short, hard punch to the gut for keeping his guard too high. ‘What else is simpler than this?’

‘I just got done getting seven hells kicked out of me.’ His dream self is caught by a back kick, barely parrying the following downwards strike. Ichigo winces at how goddamned _slow_ he was. ‘You couldn’t have given me something more… _restful_?’

A noise verging on amusement left Zangetsu at this. ‘Reflect on your progress Ichigo. Bask in the companionship you have retained. What else can be simpler than this, training beneath a setting sun with the one who set us free?’

Ichigo isn’t often in the habit of lying to himself; it would be wrong to say there was not a fond smile on his face as he watched Rukia slip a foot behind his ankle and sweep, an amused snort escaping his lips as his dream self caught her shirt and pulled her down on top of him.

‘Fool! You-‘

In an instant sprawled limbs are reversed, Rukia on the ground and his dream self above her. Ichigo remembered the shocked look on her face, remembered that this had been the first time he had got one over on her.

‘Please,’ and the same shit-eating grin plastered on his dream self is mirrored on Ichigo’s face. ‘You were saying?’

At the time he had thought he was hot shit, but upon reflection, his very undignified yelp at the slap to the back of his head did detract from his coolness.

‘Zangetsu.’ Ichigo turns and there is the ghost of an approving smile on the old man’s face. ‘Thank you.’

He bows his head in recognition.

‘Thank you, for opening your ears and hearing my name.’ Stern eyes burrow into tired ones. ‘Rest. Grow strong. There are more fights to come, within and without.’

Ichigo remembers that white mask crumbling from his face, Byakuya far more bloodied in the brief minutes he had been a passenger in his own soul, far more stunned. He remembers the echoes of manic laughter, the feral fury that had overtaken him and pushed out of the driver’s seat. Ichigo remembers, and things are not so simple as this dream world would have one believe.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I know.’

Zangetsu nods knowingly. When he blinks again, he is gone. Turning, Ichigo sees his dream self being helped up by Rukia and this time the mutter of ‘Fool’ he knows is leaving her mouth is far more soft, far more proud of him than it had been before.

She had been the first to believe in him once she had set him on this path, from the outset working _with_ him, not _against_ him. On the embankment, his dream self’s head is downcast. Ichigo remembers the doubt that had filled him, that he couldn’t even keep up with someone trapped without their powers. She checked his hip with her own, pressed the practice sword he had dropped mid-sweep back into his hands firmly.

He also remembers the soft words she had encouraged him with, eyes filled with pride.

‘Seven times down,’ she had said. ‘Eight times up. Let’s go again.’

* * *

He awakes and the hard ground beneath his back has been replaced by a soft bed, the soft dusky sun replaced by a harsh morning sunlight. The yellow hue of Orihime’s shield had been replaced by…violet?

‘You sleep funny.’ Rukia tells him very matter-of-factly whilst he blinks the sleep away groggily, as if it was perfectly normal for her to be leaning over him, examining him with squinted eyes. Her face pinches together in a caricature of a scowl. It’d be far more menacing (and convincing) if her lips weren’t betraying her, tilted upwards in a tired looking smile.

‘You _look_ funny.’ Ichigo says through his groggy haze and can only blink slowly, his vision remaining unclear even as he comes to and she leans back in her seat. ‘Seriously, why are there two are you? Is it the painkillers?’ He makes a show of checking his arms for a drip and promptly nearly falls out of bed. ‘One’s bad enough, thank you very much.’

‘Asshole.’ A beat. ‘Two of me?’

‘Uh.’ Bringing his hand up was like moving through quicksand and his fingers almost seem to stick together with the effort it takes to point one at the multiple Rukia’s in his vision, blurry and overlapping together. ‘Three?’ A frown slides onto his face and his hand waves a bit as if he could squish them all together into one. ‘I don’t think bodies are meant to-to overlap like that.’

All three faces turned alarmed. Ichigo’s head throbbed. His _everything_ throbbed in hindsight. A heavy arm flopped next to him, hitting nothing but the bed and where the _fuck_ was-

‘Zangestu,’ and had he been slurring like that since he woke up? ‘Rukia. Where’s-‘

Bandages are pressed into his hand, the coolness of steel bleeding through in the coldest comfort.

‘Relax,’ Rukia says, and her voice is cool ice clinking in water on a hot summer day. ‘Don’t open those stiches up again, we just had the sheets washed, idiot.’

‘Stitches?’ He sits up, a hand flying to his bandaged torso. Said hand is promptly batted away, fingers settling on his chest to carefully push him back down. It didn’t occur to Ichigo to resist much against such a gentle touch. He hears Rukia exhale and his own breath comes out in an unconscious mirror of tension leaving his body. Fingers flatten and her palm is pressed against his upper chest.

‘ _Rest._ ’ And this not a request. ‘Don’t make me get my brother in here.’

Her palm is as cool as Zangetsu. His hand curls a little tighter around the bandaged steel.

‘I seem to re-remember...’ A coughing fit overtakes him and Ichigo feels rather affronted that his intimidating words have been attacked in such a manner. 'Remember...kicking his ass'

‘Do you _want_ me to get him in here?’

Ichigo grumbles.

‘I have a sword.’ He mutters, eyes focusing somewhere to the left of Rukia.

‘And I’d happily take it off you and shove it up your-‘

‘Alright.’ Zangestu is pressed back in Rukia’s general direction, her threat-not-a-threat interrupted by this sudden change in tact. In his vision, the world is swimming ever more violently. ‘Take it.’

_Not ready_ , his body is screaming at him, _not ready, still hurt, pain, pain, too much pain._

‘Wh-what?’ It’s amusing, how quickly she goes from keeping pace with him effortlessly to stuttering.

‘Take it. Keep it safe.’ His voice is even, despite the growing pain from his waist, the spinning of the room he can barely take in. For a moment, both their hands hold the blade between them. Something freezing, something boiling curls and rolls in Ichigo’s stomach, as if someone has reached directly into his soul to gently trace its shape. ‘I-I think I may pass out again. Tru-Trust you with it. Him.’

‘…I’m not going anywhere.’

Ichigo’s last memory before three Rukia’s become darkness is of her staring at the sharpest piece of his soul with careful respect, a finger gently sliding up and down the blade, as if soothing the nicks it had gained in its rampage through Soul Society. That same something that had nearly torn Byakuya to shreds practically purrs at the sight.

‘Good.’

* * *

He reawakens to loud voices outside, the sounds of vigorous training drills being put in practice. Only now, waking up with far more clarity and sharpness, is he able to appreciate and understand the grogginess and confusion he had felt. His sleep had been dreamless, timeless, the kind of sleep one falls into after a long day at work, with a tired mind, body and soul. A reset, maybe.

Something was wrong though. The chair at his bedside is empty, the room itself (sterile white, just a chair, a bed, a table on the opposite side) void of his precious weapon. Ichigo hisses as he stands, hand flying to press against the front of his waist as pressure is placed upon the weakened bone. Bandages tighten and he is suddenly aware of just how _fucked_ he had been after fighting Byakuya, the restricting feeling of cotton pressing into his skin from waist to sternum making his body temperature sky-rocket.

The door opens and slams into his face the second he puts his hand on it to test it.

‘Ah, Kurosaki.’ Captain Ukitake muses as Ichigo recoils, holding his nose with tears streaming. ‘You’re up I see.’

‘Not for long.’ He muttered mutinously through his throbbing nose.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing, nothing.’

An amused sort of lilt plays at the captain’s lips.

‘Since you’re up, perhaps you’d care to join me on a walk? I imagine it would be good to stretch your legs out after two days in bed.’ His tone didn’t make this sound like a request.

‘Two days?’ A nod. ‘Huh. Explains all that creaking when I stood up.’ Ichigo shrugs, and moves out the door, Ukitake falling into easily besides his limp.

‘If you need to rest at any po-‘

‘Captain, I’m recovering, not crippled.’ As one of the only Captain’s to do his damned _job_ , Ichigo figures he can go the extra mile to address him by his title. ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to speak about?’

Look at that, he could be polite. Yuzu would be proud.

Something ached in his chest at the remembrance of his little sister. He’d been away far longer than he had wished to be.

‘It is refreshing, to be approached so directly.’ Ukitake bows his head as they slowly walk down the stairs, his hand silently on Ichigo’s back to steady him on the way down. ‘I simply wished to inform you that we’re arranging for transportation to the world of the living for you. You’ll be able to return home at the end of the week.’ There is a pause and the two stop besides the exit to the courtyard. The sound of swords clashing was a little louder here, making Ichigo ache for the feel of Zangestu in his hand again, with that perfect balance he seemed to have. ‘And I wished to thank you, personally, outside of pomp and ceremony. Without you, Rukia would likely be-well…’

‘Without her, I’d still be some kid who saw ghosts and nothing more.’ Now, Ichigo bows his own head in respect, takes little embarrassment in the words that follow. ‘She showed me how big the world could be. Someone had to remind her the same world wouldn’t forget about her.’

Ukitake smiled.

‘Regardless. You have my thanks Kurosaki. Things were getting far too boring around here.’ The older man’s smile, despite his age, is that of a far younger soul. ‘I have plenty of paperwork to attend to. It seems the old man has deemed fit to punish me in ways outside of the physical.’ He opens the door and sunlight streams in, a wonderfully cool breeze flitting in and flirting with the bandages against Ichigo’s warm skin. ‘It is my understanding you entrusted your sword to Rukia whilst you rested. You’ll find her outside – alongside your weapon.’

‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘Thank you, Kurosaki.’ The two shake hands. ‘I admit that I find myself most curious about future events, now that you’ve helped shake up this dusty old place.’

* * *

Beneath her touch, Zangestu is rhythmically squeezed, released, squeezed, released, as Rukia observes the courtyard training from the bench she had posted herself on. She isn’t even sure what squad is training; perhaps, it is an amalgamation, stragglers looking to the routine of practice cuts and kata in the aftermath of Aizen’s betrayal. She just knows she itches to join, itches to swing a sword once more, feel that balanced weight slice the air, and the comfort of the knowledge that her sharpened edge would give challenge to most of what the world would throw at her.

She aches to wield Zangestu in practice until she has her own zanpakuto back, to consider the difference between this rolling furnace of a blade, furnished with nothing but bandages, looking so blunt and crude whilst _feeling_ so light and versatile in her hand.

But Zangetsu is not hers to wield. She promised only to keep watch over the weapon, not to wield it. It would be…disrespectful, to assume more than this.

Still, she thinks the blade would not mind so much, given the way it feels so light despite its over-sized appearance, fits her hand so nicely, despite its harsh angles.

‘Oi.’ That shock of orange hair is limping towards her, his bandages a sharp contrast to his black robes. ‘Budge over before I embarrass myself and fall over.’

Rukia arches an eyebrow, shuffles along anyway. Ichigo sits with a grateful exhale.

‘You shouldn’t be up.’

‘You gonna send me back to my room?’

‘I _do_ have your sword.’ Zangetsu’s edge nudges against his knee with little bite.

Ichigo looks over at her, eyes softening and lips falling into a gentle smirk. He’s all messy hair, sharp angles, loose and relaxed. Rukia can’t remember seeing him so content, even in Karakura. Despite the coolness of the air, her chest warms.

He settles back against the bench, hands folded in his lap and closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. Rukia watches him carefully. It is…comforting, how easily he has fallen into step with the slower pace of Soul Society without the pressing emergency of his previous objectives. A newcomer would be easily forgiven for thinking he was a higher seat, a lieutenant, even a captain, with how easily he carried himself, even in this injured state.

‘How’s your brother?’

‘Healing.’ She smiles thinly. ‘Captain Unohana may just impale him if he attempts to leave before he is recovered.’

‘I think he may have had enough of that for a good few weeks.’ Rukia made a small noise of agreement and silence fell again.

Life felt simple, on this bench, Zangestu in hand and its wielder resting beside her. It is difficult to stay tense, to stew and worry and berate oneself, when such an air of simplicity surrounds her. Training continues in front of her. Zangetsu’s steel remains cool beneath her touch. Ichigo’s eyes remain closed and his chest has settled into a steady pattern of breathing, in, out, in, out. He is alive, somehow. She is alive, somehow. The world spins on.

Yes. In the end, things remained simple within the moment, however complicated one might believe the future to be.

And when training in the courtyard ends, a tired, limping Renji coming over to greet Rukia, he finds her in a position mirroring Ichigo; back resting against the bench, hands folded in her knees with closed eyes and a steady pattern of breathing. Zangetsu rests across both their laps. It is perhaps the most peaceful Rukia has looked since she was taken prisoner in what was meant to be her own home, sitting there besides this troublesome little human who just wouldn’t stop.

Renji makes a _tsk_ ing sort of noise, Zabimaru balanced on his shoulder.

‘Good for you, Kuchiki,’ He says to the sleeping pair, slipping slowly to balance against one another’s shoulders in the middle of the bench. ‘Good for you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because some aimless simplicity might be what we all need in times like these.


	4. Datsuzoki - Freeness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pining. All of the pining. Overwhelming amounts of pining.
> 
> Enjoy!

Upon returning to Karakura with everyone but Rukia, Ichigo feels everything but peace in his soul. He had thought that merely saving Rukia would be enough to satisfy him, the simple knowledge that she just _existed_ even if in a completely separate realm of existence to him enough to bring him some measure of contentment. This is a logical process of thought, simple mathematics of the heart because it made sense, right?

And yet, here he was. Sulking. Again.

Because the fact of the matter is that Ichigo feels frankly selfish right now. Sure, he didn’t _want_ Rukia to come back to the World of the Living if she wasn’t back at full strength, didn’t want her back in his daily routines if she didn’t want to herself at the time. But now? Now half of him itches to storm Soul Society once again.

The whole drama of that idea does not mean he cannot solely put this down to his… _darker_ half, sadly. Though he is sure the Hollow within him would be quite amused at the spectacle of it all.

The crux of the matter is this, really. He _misses_ Rukia. Not in that panicked, anxious, desperate way he had knowing her execution was rapidly approaching and there was but a slim chance to prevent this, but in a far more aching way. This was something lurking beneath the surface, a sting beneath his skin that wouldn’t heal. It itched and itched at the back of his mind, coming to the forefront in a room void of her quiet, controlled breathing as she slept and rushing to sweep the light from his eyes as reminders of her dotted the town.

Ichigo Kurosaki really, properly, sadly misses Rukia Kuchiki and it feels like a chain choking him, restricting his every movement.

It is laced in how he has to double take when he hears his combat pass beep, forcing himself not to turn out of habit to ask where the Hollow was. How the seat she had occupied in class remained empty, a monument to her existence in this tiny space that refused to crumble or be occupied by another.

This is not to say he’s some sort of sulking, prickly, sad mess constantly. He still sits with Chad at lunch breaks like they used to, headphones in a quiet companionship. He still trades barbs with Ishida whenever they’re in the vicinity of one another. Orihime – Well, he doesn’t quite get what’s going on _there_ but he does his best to be nice enough, prompt some laughter and that was the normal wasn’t it?

His days are still filled with laughter and companionship, banter and the kind of shared friendship that only going to the afterlife and back could forge. His life is good, if not shadowed by the cloud of Aizen looming in the background doing hell knows what.

His days would be a lot goddamned easier if they didn’t all pick up on his eyes going distant at times, or his mouth slanting downwards in a sad sort of scowl.

Take now, for instance.

‘You know, you can’t just glare a hole into Soul Society for her to step through.’ Ishida is approaching from behind him, Ichigo resting on the safety rails that looked out onto the river running through Karakura.

‘Go away Quincy.’ The title lacks any real venom. ‘I just- I don’t have the energy today.’

He really doesn’t. He just feels _tired._ His Hollow stirs and growls and scratches at the walls of his mind most minutes of the day, testing him constantly, probing for any sign of weakness to exploit and let loose. His heart just aches for a friend he is missing. And, for all they might bite and barb at one another, Ishida might be the only one outside of Rukia he would admit this to.

The Quincy had lain in the rain, bleeding out beside him as Byakuya strode carelessly away after all. There was something to be said for near-death experiences forging close bonds.

Ishida leans on the rail besides him, a shopping bag placed on the ground between them as if erecting some sort of respectful barrier. The sunlight catches his glasses in a peculiar manner, almost blocking off his eyes to Ichigo.

‘You do realise she is coming back, don’t you?’ An odd sort of smile takes to Ishida’s face, as if he knows some secret Ichigo does not.

‘I know.’ This does not help with this… _yearning_ that is so new and so foreign.

‘And you do realise she’ll have to leave for Soul Society again at some point?’

‘I know.’ His voice is quieter and _trust him_ , he has thought on this matter plenty. He is living and she is dead; interactions between two such states of being are only ever meant to be brief, after all. The dead protect the dead. The living protect the living until their allotted time has come.

And here he is, stuck between the two states; death gnawing venomously within him to escape, to break, to roam freely and with no tethers whilst life restrains him, grounds him besides his friends and grants him a purpose.

Rukia will always have to leave for Soul Society, home of the dead. He will always have to return or remain here, the home of the living. This will always be a common cycle until his own time has passed.

‘I know.’ Ichigo says again.

‘Sulking like a lovestruck romance star doesn’t suit you Kurosaki.’

‘I am not _lovestruck_.’ That odd, knowing smile slipped onto Ishida’s face one again at this.

‘But you _are_ sulking, hm?’

Ichigo only groans in reply, leaning down to rest his head against the cool safety rail.

‘Did you come here specifically just to annoy me?’

‘No, but that does always brighten my day up.’

‘Don’t you have shopping to put away or some shit?’

‘What?’ A beat. ‘Oh. No. I just don’t want people thinking I sought you out because I knew you were having a tough time.’

‘How thoughtful of you.’ Ichigo mutters into metal.

‘I thought so.’ They lapse into silence, Ishida rustling around in that shopping bag and pulling out two chocolate bars. One is tapped against the back of Ichigo’s head, taken out of his hand with a grumble of thanks.

The two remain there for a good few hours, silently observing those walking across the other side of the river.

‘You can tell me what’s causing that scowl on your sorry face, you know.’ Ishida breaks the silence quietly, seriously, as the two watch a pair of kids skating down the path opposite, hand in hand.

‘I can’t.’

What could one say to the news that their friend was just as dangerous to them as the enemies they had fought through in Soul Society? Ishida would offer some sage advice, on staying strong and steady and perhaps recommend he take up knitting, or meditation. Chad would say little, perhaps place a comforting hand on his shoulder, because what do you say to someone who would most likely snap you in two without breaking a sweat if their demon emerged? Orihime would fuss. She would crowd him, offer all sorts of different advice on how to handle his problem. It would be like suffocating and he feels that particular emotion far too much nowadays as it is, thank you very much.

If any one of them caught sight of his inner Hollow, they would all run away _screaming_. They would all die, screaming.

He can’t tell anyone in the living world about his Hollow because the damned thing would make them all afraid of him, afraid _for_ him and the world has already become restrictive enough without all of this on top.

‘Why?’

‘I just…can’t. It’s my problem to deal with. Not yours.’

‘I see.’

Ichigo is thankful that Ishida seems to take little offence to this. For someone who had seemingly wanted him to die a rather humiliating death in their first meetings, the Quincy understood the values of boundaries and when to push, when not to push.

‘She asked me to keep an eye on you, you know.’

‘Wh-What?’ And yes, admittedly, _this_ takes him by surprise.

‘Asked all three of us to watch out for you.’ He coughs, head ducking as if betraying some terrible taboo. ‘Don’t tell her I told you that, when you see her. For such a tiny person, she seems like she’d be rather intimidating with a zanpakuto pointed at my throat if she knew.’

‘W-why would she ask you to do that?’ Ishida shrugged.

‘ _The fool would rather see himself burn alone if he thought his kindling would spark amongst his friends.’_ His impression of Rukia, with his back straight and chin tilted back is absolutely fucking _dreadful_. ‘ _Just keep an eye on the idiot.’_

‘Sounds like her.’ The thought still makes Ichigo’s chest warm a little. ‘Never do that again in front of her if you don’t want her zanpakuto to pierce that throat.’ He advised.

‘I’m not suicidal.’

‘You came to Soul Society with me when our plan consisted completely of ‘kick ass, save Rukia.’ Ichigo deadpanned.

‘Yes, well, you can reserve your judgements on my intelligence all you like for that one Kurosaki.’ He pushed his glasses up with a wry sort of smile. ‘Personally though, I think that plan worked out quite well myself.’

A breath of laughter leaves Ichigo at this and that tension rolling through his body eased a little bit. The barrier erected by the shopping bag is broken as Ishida reaches over and punches his arm lightly.

‘You might not be able to tell any of us what troubles you,’ _Until Rukia arrives_ , goes unspoken in the pause he takes. ‘But that doesn’t mean you can just go off missing and sulking on us. Got it?’

‘Got it.’

‘Good. I’d hate to have to beat you again.’

‘ _Again?_ ’ and Ichigo’s incredulous tone leads them into the far more familiar territory of arguing as the two turn and begin to walk down the river.

 _Just keep an eye on the idiot_.

The thought warms Ichigo and perhaps, just maybe, the world wasn’t quite as restricting as it had been previously.

* * *

In the wake of incarceration and her very soul being manhandled for the object within it, Rukia does not find Soul Society a particularly… _freeing_ place to exist upon Ichigo’s departure. Not that it had ever been a place of roaming freedom within the walls separating Soul Society from the wilder districts outside, with the different Seats, the multiple Captains, all the customs and hierarchies and traditions to respect.

That formulaic tinge to life for a Soul Reaper used to be a comfort for Rukia upon joining the thirteenth. Now she feels positively choked by it, can feel the pressure of ambition binding her wrists together, the strands of formality wrapping around her throat to squeeze tighter and tighter and _tighter_. Existing outside of the norm, a Soul Reaper without her zanpakuto, a Soul Reaper without duties, an observer instead of an actor only serves to irritate this marked difference in existence between rigid Soul Society and the wilder existence that lay _beyond_.

The difference between life with Ichigo, in the World of the Living and life with her squad, with Renji, with her brother, in a world so utterly rigid and devoid of true, unpredictable _life_ is outstanding.

Rukia gazes out at the open grass and rising trees of the Kuchiki estate from her perch upon a balcony and she has never felt so hemmed in.

A cough from behind disturbs her ruminations and she turns to see Byakuya standing in the doorway to her room, hands primly behind his back.

‘Brother.’ A faint note of surprise is in Rukia’s voice; it is not often that Byakuya makes house calls. His eyes are cooler than the steel of her zanpakuto and she would have shivered had he been gazing upon her as an enemy, rather than a sibling.

‘Rukia.’ Not sister. Never sister. She doesn’t _think_ it’s an insult. Those cool eyes roam from her position on the balcony rail to the ignored seat safely situated away from said perch. ‘Is there something wrong with the chair?’

‘What? No?’

‘Then…why are you sitting on the rail?’ He seems genuinely confused by this tiny act, this small, insignificant token of rebellion against the rigidity of Soul Society.

 _Fuck those chairs_ , in other words.

‘Because I can.’ Is her reply, and the almost petulant, spiteful tone in her voice makes her think she’d probably spent far too much time with Ichigo and his wild ways.

Her heart aches a little at the thought of him. Perhaps not, after all.

‘…I see.’ He hovers at the door and whilst uncertain is never a word that can be applied to a man like Byakuya Kuchiki, one would be forgiven for thinking it _could_ apply in this moment. ‘…May I?’

Rukia nods, turns back to look out at the grass being teased by the wind as he strides forward to place himself in the empty seat behind her.

‘Your zanpakuto has returned.’ Byakuya observes. The weapon in question is besides Rukia, rested against the rail a few centimetres from her hand.

‘Shirayuki.’ She would not let that sword leave her side for a very considerable amount of time to come. Curling her hand around the sword’s handle, a quiet smile slides easily onto her face. ‘She returned last night.’

In dramatic fashion too. A rush of freezing air had slammed the balcony door shut, waking Rukia to a heavy weight resting on her legs, the pale blade glinting in the moonlight as she had unsheathed it carefully, delicately, breathlessly.

She had not slept as well as she did that night in a long while.

‘Good.’ Byakuya’s tone is…warm, for a change. She supposes if anyone was to understand the importance her blade held, it would be a Captain. ‘And…yet…’

‘Yet what?’

‘You still seem…troubled.’

Shirayuki was so cold to the touch, it burned. This did not bother Rukia; it was a comfort, if nothing else. It did remind her of Ichigo though, of holding Zangetsu and feeling that raging inferno seeping through the crude, bandaged handle up into her hand, her arm, her soul. The memory seems to intrigue Shirayuki. She feels…colder than she had, as if attempting to level out and keep the memory of such heat at bay.

She is thankful Zangetsu and Shirayuki are unlikely to clash. The two would likely tear one another to shreds in a dangerous stalemate, refusing to back down or concede to the others strength.

She wishes they could meet though. Wishes she could unleash Shirayuki and see the look on Ichigo’s face when she lets her zanpakuto dance.

She’d settle for just seeing him again, at this point.

‘I am…eager to get back to action.’

‘…Are you?’ Rukia’s head snatches to her brother and he leans forward in his seat. From within those long flowing robes of a captain, he produces a file. ‘It seems you’re in luck. Your captain asked that I pass this on to you, when you had healed.’ He leans back after Rukia has yanked the file in question from his hand.

‘You’re headed back to the World of the Living, sister.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a little more substantial for the next chapter hopefully. Expect another delay, since university assignments are a bitch.
> 
> Thank you!


	5. Yugen - Subtle Grace

_Sode no Shirayuki_ takes Ichigo’s breath away. Rukia wields her zanpakuto with a grace he neither possessed or had seen before. To call her weapon’s attacks ‘dances’ is perhaps the only way to describe the particles of ice lingering in the air after her _tsukshiro,_ the only way to describe how Di Roy lingered in the air, punctured and frozen by the cold with his very blood turning blue in the freezing circle Rukia had let loose upon her enemy.

One attack. One swing of her sword. Ruthlessly efficient, subtly graceful, absolutely effective. Ichigo thinks Shirayuki suits Rukia to the very bone after this initial display and if he wasn’t absolutely taken with her before storming Soul Society, he thinks he just might be now.

For a moment, everything is just _right_ in the world. They are back to back (well – as back-to-back as they could be with her damned gigai wrenching his arm out his socket), both their weapons unsheathed, bared with no obscurity in their true forms to one another. There is banter, and comfort and things are just right once again.

Then, Grimmjow arrives. Then, Rukia has a gaping hole in her stomach in half a minute, blood spurting everywhere in the most gruesome fashion and snowy skin turning colourless as she collapses to the ground. Her mouth moves ever so slightly, as if her soul _wants_ to convey the pain it is in through noises and words but…is simply _unable_ to. Ichigo sees red, red, red and all he can do is launch himself at the enemy and pray he has the strength to overcome his inner demon for just five more minutes. He is brute strength, desperate and pathetic in how he swings his weapon, no technique, just sheer _rage_.

Grimmjow. Brute force, no grace about him, nothing but pure, unrepenting power. Ichigo wasn’t blind to the similarities between the two of them. It makes him more uncomfortable than he likes, upon reflection.

_Did you win?_ Renji had asked when Grimmjow was summoned away.

He had lost the second Rukia fell to the ground, blood spurting from her midriff because he was too _weak_ and _slow_.

He was lucky.

Rukia was not.

She lies on some non-descript rooftop after Grimmjow is done beating him senseless, Orihime’s shield cocooning her and all Ichigo can do is _watch_. It is agony, watching the tiny shivers of pain run feebly across her body, seeing how she almost curls into herself to protect that gaping wound being slowly stitched back together. He could not best Grimmjow, was not fast enough to protect her, all because of his _stupid fucking Hollow_.

This is where he snaps. That singular drive that had helped him rip Soul Society apart, helped him survive Kenpachi Zaraki and bought him to his feet in his useless, pathetic attempt against Aizen reared its head and it was decided.

He _would_ control his demons. Not the other way around.

He _would_ rip Grimmjow limb from bloody limb and make him kneel in absolute submission, make him beg and grovel and _die_.

_He will not allow this to happen again_.

_Her enemies were his and they would **burn**_ **.**

* * *

When Rukia sees the hole in her stomach, dazed, confused, frozen, she blinks. It is slow, her eyes taking an eternity to close and open once more and when she looks up, her surroundings have changed.

She blinks and instead of the houses around her, the road beneath her feet, there is only a large, old-fashioned dojo. The floor is made up of bamboo beams and _tatami_ mats, the supporting beams above her criss-crossing despite the roof itself being seemingly out of reach. She can feel tape beneath her bare feet and when she looks up-

‘You were slow.’

Shirayuki stands opposite her, pale skin and snowy robes a sharp contrast to the dark wood surrounding her. Beneath her zanpakuto’s feet is another line of simple black tape.

Rukia blinks again.

‘He was fast.’ Is the only reply that seems suitable and if the serene Shirayuki were the type to bare her teeth, she would.

‘You were slow.’ She repeats and an icy wind blows across the room. A lithe hand reaches into robes of ice and Rukia’s blade, in it’s true form, was pulled out. In Rukia’s own hand, a nameless zankpakuto suddenly exists within her clenched fist. ‘And now you lie dying in an average street, on an average night, and your companion can not protect himself against the enemy, much less _you_.’

A stabbing pain shoots through Rukia’s body and she doubles over in pain, the smallest gasp of pain escaping her unwillingly.

‘I can not keep you safe here forever.’ Shirayuki seems unmoved by her plight. ‘The pain and the dark will come and death will knock at our door until it is answered, or chased away by others.’

Icy eyes meet violet ones, cool calm against pained confusion and Rukia forces herself to stand straight.

‘Do you recognise this place?’ A hand waves around the dojo carelessly.

‘Of course,’ and Rukia’s voice is raw from the slowly building pain in her stomach. ‘This is where I first heard your name.’ Shirayuki nodded.

‘I found purpose in being your instrument here.’ Shirayuki raises her pale blade and her feet settle back into a relaxed fighting stance. ‘Demonstrate your own purpose to me. Show me that you will chase death away from our door and live through this.’

Wordlessly, Rukia sets herself back into a stance that mirrors her sword. Relaxed, light on her feet. Graceful, even through her pain.

‘Will you be slow again?’ Shirayuki questions and the light fades a little as she approaches.

‘No.’ Rukia answers and she launches herself at her zanpakuto with a vigor that overrode any pain building in her body.

Purpose had always drove her forwards. Misgivings about the manner in which Soul Society operated may be lingering under the surface but this does not change her purpose; to protect those who could save themselves from Hollows. To stop Aizen. To protect.

Her purpose was clear and death would not be greeted as an old friend today.

* * *

She drags herself back to the world of the living by sheer stubborn will and little else. A gasp and her body arches from the pain that was so much more piercing than it had been in Shirayuki’s company, the dark swallowing her up as her eyes snap shut from the agony. Voices speak above her, although Rukia can not make them out.

A hand reaches out, holds her own clammy one with a firm sort of confidence, a delicate kind of reverence that helps cut through the pain. Twilight pierces the darkness as she manages to open her squinting eyes.

‘Rukia.’ She knows this voice. This voice is _important_ , to her and to Shirayuki. ‘ _Rukia_.’

Eyes that are usually such a mellow colour are pinprick sharp as they gaze at her, implore her to listen through the yellow barrier that surrounds her.

‘Ichigo.’ She rasps his name like a lifeline and is blind to Orihime’s subdued wince on her other side. She finds the strength to move her hand up, grip his wrist _hard_ and never let go. Zangetsu is laid down beside him and another hand covers her own.

‘I know it hurts,’ he tells her and images of his waist in ribbons from Aizen’s attack flash through her mind. ‘I _know_ , but you need to stay still alright?’

The pain turns sharp for a few seconds as her flesh knits back together just a little more and it takes all her strength not to roar, biting down so hard on her lip it draws blood. Ichigo’s hand presses down on her own.

‘I’m right here.’ Whether it's from helping his father out so much or something much more natural, his tone is soothing even as his eyes rage. ‘Squeeze my wrist, hard as you like, go on.’ The pain comes again, flesh knitting itself back together and Ichigo doesn’t even blink as her nails draw blood on his inner wrist.

Voices speak again incoherently above her and she can only look at Ichigo, see his face twist in grimace of displeasure. Something about it recedes a little as he looks back at her and Rukia has to wonder what she must look like to prompt such a soft gaze. She is reminded somewhat of how Byakuya gazes at the portrait of her mother, tinged with sadness and regret. This is not a look she likes to see.

'... _barrier...'_ she makes out. _'....need...closed...'_

‘I need to let go.’ He tells her reluctantly after this and Rukia unconsciously grips his wrist harder at these words. She understands now, how he felt when he entrusted her with Zangetsu in the aftermath of Aizen’s betrayal. That hurried, near delirious pattern to his speech as he pressed the weapon into her hands as if there was some crucial universal truth that _needed_ to be understood before it was too late and unconsciousness claimed what words could not convey.

Her free hand unclenches from her bloodied robes and Shirayuki is picked up with shaking hands. She releases his hands and presses the sheathed weapon into them.

‘Protect her,’ she rasps. _I trust you with my soul_. _Please. Understand._ ‘I-I’ll need her back.’

Ichigo’s hands are almost reverent as he manipulates the weapon out of the barrier and nods stiffly.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’ He says and his voice is like the gentlest snowfall. A choked sort of laugh leaves Rukia without permission.

‘Good.’ Ichigo smiles tightly at her mirror of his own choked and delirious words. Darkness takes her again as the barrier closes over fully and Rukia slips into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Ichigo is sat on the edge of the roof, Shirayuki in hand, when Renji comes to sit next to him. The blade is…well…comforting. It is cold and foreign, sits in his hand a little more snugly than the sharp edges of Zangetsu does. He thinks he could wield Shirayuki as effectively as Zangetsu, with a little effort. It is different but, much like Rukia’s impact on his life, this is not a bad thing.

‘Hard seeing her like that.’ Renji mutters to the night sky, a leg swinging carelessly from the roof.

‘Doesn’t sit right.’ Ichigo agrees with a melancholy tone. Guilt that he was neither fast enough nor strong enough to intercept Grimmjow’s attack washes over him again. Shirayuki flares as he grips the weapon harder in response, the coldness of the blade grounding him.

His Hollow’s rage whispers in the currents of his mind. He _could_ be fast enough, strong enough, if he just let his other half in the driver’s seat.

His better half?

Shirayuki is quickly set aside at this fleeting thought, lest he taint the purest weapon he has ever had the honour of holding with such weak thoughts. The sharp edges of Zangetsu fit instead in his hand and this rough, dirty, crude weapon reminds him of his own strength, the power of his own untempered rage and purpose that needs the aid of no Hollow. The blade practically purrs its approval to him at his angry resistance.

‘I’m going to kill him.’ Ichigo tells Renji. There is no heat to his voice. No trembling from rage or anguish. His voice is as cold as Shirayuki’s blade, as steady as Zangetsu’s strength. It was not a promise, a target, something to strive for.

Grimmjow’s death was just inevitable. His grievous transgression would not go unpunished. End of discussion.

‘I know.’ Renji replied. His voice was also steady, accepting. He has seen Ichigo do the impossible before in standing against Byakuya. He knew he would see Ichigo rise to this occasion. ‘You’ve got a problem to sort out before you get to that though.’

When Ichigo turns his head, Renji sees the barest hints of black creeping into his irises, like veins of ore sneaking along a mountain. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move away. He just stares right back unflinchingly.

‘I’m going to fucking _destroy him_.’

That, Renji thinks, is when Ichigo is at his most deadly, his most intimidating. He is pure focus, sheer stubborn will. There was something admirable in how he demanded the world bend, no matter how much it tried to make _him_ bend instead.

‘You’ve got a problem to sort out before you get to that.’ Renji repeats. He might be focused and raging but that wouldn’t stop his inner demons from taking hold and getting him killed. Renji motions his head towards Rukia. ‘Don’t much think she’ll take kindly to having to kick your ass if you lose it.’

Ichigo turns to look at her at this. The hole in her stomach seemed smaller now, nearly healed and sweat poured from Orihime as she worked to finish the job. He thinks she might be the only one his Hollow wouldn’t tear limb from limb if he lost to it.

But that was an irrelevant thought. He wouldn’t lose himself.

‘She won’t need to.’ And the same certainty that Grimmjow would die is present in this statement.

‘Make sure she doesn’t.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I caught most spelling errors. Feel free to point any out I missed. Enjoy!


	6. Shibumi - Beauty in the Understated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow update. Laptop died and needed replacing, chapter needed retyping. Enjoy!

‘Why did you change your mind?’ Shinji asks.

Ichigo is seated on the dusty ground, Zangetsu laid next to him and he has never quite felt a…contentment with himself like this. For the first time in a long, _long_ time, his soul feels settled, if only for a moment.

In response, Ichigo only shrugs. He is grateful for Shinji and the Visored’s help. Whether or not they will be a more…permanent fixture in his life remains to be seen. He’d like to play his cards close to hand for now.

Of course, he knows why he changed his mind. Rukia, a giant gaping hole in her stomach, set his hackles on edge. He needed Grimmjow _dead_ to ensure that didn’t ever happen again.

He needed his demons onside to have the strength to carry out such a task.

‘You were right,’ he settles on and the admission leaves him begrudgingly. ‘My Hollow would have eaten me up and spat me out within the month if I hadn’t changed my mind.’

‘It nearly did anyway.’ Shinji observes and there’s a curious sort of lilt to his voice as he perches on an errant rock besides Ichigo. ‘You cut it close, Kurosaki.’

‘Bad habits die hard.’

‘Better them than you.’

Another shrug in response. Despite the intense nature of his training, Ichigo feels languid and relaxed. It is difficult to care much about his personal shortcomings so soon after conquering his Hollow and gaining some semblance of peace in his mind. His thoughts are his own, his actions are his own and his contentment with this is his own. His existence feels…understated for once. Acceptable, even if he is surrounded by relative strangers. He is allowed to exist as he wishes, if only for this moment.

There is, of course, a looming cloud of guilt over his head for the manner in which he left. He can imagine the tears of Yuzu, the quiet sadness of Karen, the chaotic concern of his father clearly in his mind.

He can imagine Rukia, waking up confused. Searching him out during the day, alone and worried. Perhaps it is arrogant of him to think this, imagine this, but he _knows_ her, knows her better than some of her own family and he feels this intimacy with great pride and respect.

The guilt eats away at him like his Chain had eaten away at itself and released his inner Hollow.

Perhaps something changes in his posture; a slump of the shoulders, or maybe a sad exhale of air. He did what had to be done, for his own safety, for the safety of his loved ones, but the guilt will remain.

Hiyori notices.

And Ichigo is shortly on his back, sandal solidly on his forehead.

‘ _BREAK TIME’S OVER KUROSAKI!’_

* * *

Despite his absence, Rukia can’t quite find it in herself to feel angry at Ichigo and his manner of departure. Oh he _will_ get grief for it when they’re alone together again, but at this moment?

At this moment she’s just concerned.

She isn’t concerned for him physically, per se. He’s powerful, more powerful than most realise and perfectly fine at looking after himself through brute force alone. The look on his face the night before he left told her he _had_ to leave in the manner he did, for his peace of mind, else he felt a burden upon others. She didn’t like those furrowed brows and dull eyes of his. He suited laughter and life much better.

She was concerned for him, mentally. If there was one thing Ichigo didn’t take particularly well, it was defeat. Defeat by Grimmjow is bad enough for him, she knows. Defeat by his own hand?

Intolerable. It fell short of the standards he set himself. Frankly, it fell short of the standards _she_ set _him_ , although she would not look down upon him for falling short given the nature of his enemies, within and without. If he left to better himself, to avoid such a defeat again, she held nothing but respect for this. It showed more maturity than some of her elders.

Such a crushing manner of defeat concerns Rukia. She does not wish to see such a strong back bend at this struggle and she hopes, wishes, prays, that he has left to seek help, or train himself and his…well, whatever the _hell_ that thing was that turned gorgeous mellow honey into frenzied psychotic black. Focus is required, a clear goal in sight, in order to prevent another intolerable incident from recurring again.

She doesn’t wish to find him to console him. She wishes to remind him that her well-being is not his burden. She was not quick enough to avoid Grimmjow’s blow, after all. She wishes to remind him that he _needs_ this focus, this objective to train towards, if he hasn’t found it already. She wishes to work with him to find it, or else aid him in his training if he already knows this aim.

He is not a boy to be coddled, and she is not a girl to coddle. They are warriors and it would be…disrespectful to think less of him.

Despite all this, her heart does ache a little to lay her eyes on him, as visual confirmation that he is physically safe, in order to end the endless circles of speculation she finds herself in.

She misses him.

She thinks she understands a little of the angst Ichigo went through when they parted in Soul Society now. It is a…heavy kind of blanket and not the comfortable kind she likes falling asleep under.

Traitorously, her mind wonders what sleep would be like beneath _his_ blanket and Rukia quickly stands from the coffee table she had been momentarily resting at to resume her had been sat at to resume her search.

* * *

‘I see my idiot son hasn’t returned.’ Isshin notes when Rukia sits on the kitchen counter. He is calmly drying dishes, placing them away methodically and his words lack bite. Her shoulders tense regardless. Kindly and… _eccentric_ as he might, something about him reminds her of a thunderstorm gathering and brewing, readying itself to let loose at the moment of its choosing. He had the same sort of edge about him that Ichigo held, minutes before brawling her brother into submission. Coiled. Predatory.

‘No.’ A pause of weighty silence. ‘I-I’m sorry.’

Isshin shrugged and the similarities between father and son are striking.

‘He isn’t your responsibility.’

‘You seem awfully calm about all this.’

‘What use is stressing?’ He asks and stretches to open the cupboard above his head. Muscle pulls against a tight shirt and yes, something is very, very off about Isshin Kurosaki. Friendly, eccentric old fathers don’t have lean muscle built to fight without good reason. ‘I know my son. He’s likely doing something reckless, on his own, because he thinks the rest of us far too fragile to know.’

Another shrug.

‘I’ve always let him live life on his own terms. Restraining him just makes him moodier. Let him make his own progress, his own mistakes. It’s the only way he’ll learn.’ Isshin frowns and the furrow of his brow makes Rukia snort in how similar it is to a sulking Ichigo. ‘And good _grief_ , that boy can get moody when he hits a setback.’

‘Like father, like son?’

The tea towel is brandished at her with conviction.

‘I’m a delightful ray of sunshine, Ms Rukia.’

Another snort leaves Rukia’s lips and Isshin nods approvingly.

‘Better.’

‘Better?’ And yes, she is slightly confused at this.

‘You suit worrying about as well as my son does. Don’t you worry about him, he’ll be back soon.’

The words leave reluctantly, as Rukia is most definitely not worried.

‘How do you know?’

The smile on his face is absolutely shit-eating.

‘He’ll miss you too much.’

Suddenly, the kitchen becomes very hot and she excuses herself. Isshin’s amusement carries from the kitchen, even as she ascends to their- _his_ room.

* * *

Orihime leaves him to train and the Visored all give him a _look_.

‘What?’

They continued to stare.

‘ _What?_ ’

‘You didn’t tell us you had a girlfriend.’ Hachigen’s tone is calm, amused even.

‘ _WHAT?’_ And now sounds of protest turn to sputters and blusters. Ichigo’s tone is not calm. At all.

‘Well, she does seem uh…quite… _taken_ with you.’

_Please_ , _kill me now_. It’d be a blessing if Grimmjow showed up around now.

(Gods above he’d come to regret that particular line of thought soon enough)

‘No. She-We aren’t-‘ He sighs and swats Zangetsu in the general direction of the Visored. ‘No.’

Shinji takes it upon himself to waggle his eyes gleefully at Ichigo.

‘What about the Soul Reaper attached to your hip in school?’

‘What about her?’ And Ichigo nearly swats himself with Zangetsu for inadvertently imagining the warmth of Rukia’s hand in his own, the vivid colour of her eyes as she leant in and-

No. Absolutely not. Bad, _bad_ rabbit hole. Those were very much _not_ thoughts one had of their best friend.

That was what she was, wasn’t it? His best friend.

_Friend_.

He didn’t think he’d ever think that word with such a longing kind of bitterness.

Shinji smirks, taps his nose and Ichigo has the urge to hurl Zangetsu through his chest with the way that creepy, shit-eating grin slinks onto his face.

‘I’ll leave you to your training, Kurosaki.’ A conspiring wink is flashed at him. ‘Don’t get too distracted now.’

‘What the hell is that meant to mean, you smug little- _SHIT!_ ’

Ichigo’s snarl is cut off by Hiyori’s sandal planted firmly in a very sensitive area between one’s legs.

‘It means focus on your opponent, idiot.’ She kicks him in the chest for good measure as he sinks to his knees groaning. ‘I’m not done with your ass yet.’

* * *

Upon reflection, when training had finished for the day, and he was propped up against some nondescript rock, sweat-slick skin cooling as the light dimmed, his moment of realisation shouldn’t be _that_ surprising.

He’d never fancied someone before. Well, someone attainable, that he actively bothered to talk to and interact with. Pretty girls off the TV didn’t count.

He didn’t quite know how he should be processing the information. It seems to have settled quite quickly and comfortably into his chest, a warm little thought that sat somewhere between his heart and his lungs.

That summed Rukia up nicely, he thought. Lodged in the space between his beating heart and breathing lungs. Mixed with the air he inhaled and exhaled, intertwined with every beat that rushed blood around his body. He wouldn’t be here, if not for her.

And in return, she wouldn’t if it weren’t for him. Tit for tat, back to back.

Goddamn it, it took it so _long_ to catch on.

She is, he begrudgingly admits to his stupid, slow, tiny brain, beautiful in an understated way. Like the snowflakes of winter, falling gently, constantly, unnoticed and yet considered with reverence all the same, she is beautiful.

Damnit.

He really was fucked.

* * *

When she falls asleep that night, it is in his bed, beneath his blankets, long after the Kurosaki household has fallen to slumber. She creeps from the guest bed so kindly provided for her and just sits on his bed, almost able to feel the steady heat his body always seemed to give off over the blankets. Just out of touch, a tantalising tease of how it would be to fall asleep beside him.

The thought makes her slump and soon she is beneath that blanket, and behind her closed eyes is a presentation of moments between them. Renji would term it the lightbulb moment, were they back in Rukongai and things were a little wild, a little less formal.

Was that the attraction to him? His utter disregard for the structure and rigid rules of Soul Society that bordered on contempt? His refusal to bow and curtail to his supposed position?

And he _was_ handsome enough, in that understated way he had. Not that his shock of orange hair was understated _at all_ , but the way he moved all gangly legs and lean muscle, coordinated just enough to tease at the lethality he was capable of when he drew that _very_ overstated blade. And, admittedly, the sharp lines of his jaw _did_ make her lick her lips when her guard was down.

She curls up beneath the blankets and huffs.

She’d kill him when he got back. Personally wait for him in the districts of Soul Society to kill him again.

The sheer fucking _cheek_ to make her act like a high-school girl by looking good and giving a damn.

_God, she had been slow on the uptake._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more left!


	7. Seijaku - Tranquility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit messy, just as I imagine both characters felt after Ichigo lost his powers.

In the end, he loses his powers. Events progress too quickly, too brutally and the inevitable march of time and consequence seperate them again permanently. He is unable to tell her that he thinks she is drop-dead _gorgeous_ , in how she walks, talks, laughs, dances with Sode no Shirayuki. He was unable to satsify his own curiosity as to how her lips would feel against his own, how her hand in his might feel. She disappears in front of his eyes because the world required sacrifice to keep on turning and they both knew that the hard choices were the only ones sometimes.

He tries to take up boxing. Chad suggests it to him, puts forward the rather therapeutic properties of being able to beat the shit out of a bag. The first session he sits, observes, takes in the sparring partners, the laughter as they get one up on one another, the encouragement as one friend holds the bag and guides, corrects, goads the other that punches it.

It is all too familiar to Ichigo to partake in so instead he watches and wishes. Wishes for Zangetsu on his back again, wishes for Rukia to appear before his eyes again, to laugh with and exist so naturally beside her again.

He stands and waits outside for Chad to finish. It is not for him, he decides.

One night, his sleeplessness and brashness go hand in hand and he dresses in old grey joggers and a baggy hoodie, slips earphones in and blasts his music obnoxiously loud as he runs around Karakura.

He is good at running, Ichigo finds. It keeps him fit, allows him to keep the muscled body he had filled out through months of combat. His own skin and sinew is a constant reminder of what was, what could’ve been and he refuses to let it slip away like everything else. Come rain or floods, he ran, and ran, and ran.

* * *

Rukia knows this, of course. Some nights she sits atop roofs and watches the shock of orange hair peeking out the hoodie run around the block. Sometimes it was a mere half an hour. Sometimes it was for hours, until the blazing sky mirrored his hair and he was near collpase.

Some nights, she places Shirayuki on top of the roofs and runs beside him in silent compansionship. She understands the appeal, she guesses. Nothing but burning legs and an open road. It is a good way to quiet a stormy mind.

She gives silent nods to those who can still see her in the world of the living. Ichigo’s sister smiles sadly at her when she is spotted perching on a window, watching over him in the school grounds. He sits against a shaded tree, earphones in and staring into the distance numbly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she wants to say to Karin. But, as humans do, the child moves on, running after the rest of her football team in a scramble to catch up.

‘I’m sorry,’ she rasps through a harsh throat and burning tears to his father as his arms wrap around her in a strong hug. He has finished his homework and the wall has seemingly captured his attention as he drowns in memories of the past. ‘I-I never wanted this to happen.’

‘No one did.’ And Isshin’s voice is deeply, deeply sad. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

If anyone understands her grief, she thinks he does. You never stop grieving the loved ones you lose after all.

‘You just learn to keep walking forwards.’ He tells her another night, when she walks home silently beside Ichigo after one of his runs. She hopes some part of him knows she hasn’t and never will abandon him. 'He will, one day. So will you.’

* * *

Perched on the rooftop, watching him running, a voice behind her makes her jump.

‘I’m sorry,’ Byakuya tells her and his own blade is set down beside Shirayuki. Her brother is not the type to hold and hug and console but he does perch himself next to her.

‘You didn’t give him your powers and doom him to this.’

‘…You weren’t to know.’ And this is unfamiliar territory for the two of them, speakng openly like this. He navigates it with careful precision, choosing each word as he would a strike against an unknown enemy. ‘He knew the price he could pay to finish Aizen off.’

‘This _isn’t_ his fault,’ and Rukia’s snarl is more akin to Ichigo’s Hollow form than herself for a moment.

‘Nor is it yours.’ Byakuya states calmly. ‘It simply is. You cannot change anything from this rooftop. He cannot change anything running down the same paths, night after night.’

* * *

Rukia remembers the tranquility of life when they had first found each other. The easy banter, the companionship, the ability to be free, be _herself_ for the first time in centuries. Everything just…fit, in a manner she knew to be rare.

Look at them now.

* * *

Ichigo runs. And he runs. And runs.

It is the closest he gets to recapturing the tranquility of better days. The splash of his feet in rain-soaked streets isn’t the same as bright laughter and enduring support, the music in his ears doesn’t drown out wistful thoughts of violet eyes and softer lips pressing against his own in feverish dreams.

But his mind quiets. One foot forward. Then another. In tune to a rhythm only he can hear.

He goes to sleep late and wakes up early. He laughs, smiles, shrugs, snarls as he normally would in school. Sometimes he shuts down, loses himself in memories but the facade of normality is one he is getting better at.

Perhaps one day, he would get close to feeling whole and normal again if he kept on pretending.

For now, though he would run.

He would run and dream of more tranquil days.


End file.
